Illness
by achievableformofflight
Summary: WARNING - probable eating disorder triggers. The signs have been there for weeks. He should have known. After all, he's seen it all before. So he carries the image home with him, laying it out in front of John, and hopes.


**DISCLAIMER: It all belongs to the BBC.**

**Warnings: Eating disorder. If you're easily triggered, stay away.**

**I'm sorry for all the bulimia angst; on my bad days it helps to imagine my favourite characters struggling and overcoming. *hides***

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><p><em>Acidic smell in the air. Recent. He identified it as soon as he walked through the door. <em>

_Somebody was sick._

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><p>In hindsight, the signs had been there for weeks. The flinch when he commented on her recent weight gain. The rustle of wrappers in her pockets when he passed her in the lab. The sudden utilization of gum and freshmints. Exaggerated mood swings.<p>

He'd put it down to insecurity, low self-esteem due to her apparently inability to find a suitable male partner. It's only when he sees her peeling off her forensic gloves that he realises, and can't believe he's been so blind. The marks are bitten deep into her knuckles, red and raw, and he's shocked into silence in the middle of a particularly snide remark about the state of her teeth.

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><p><em>Not Mrs Hudson. She was partial to Radio 2 when she was feeling off, and the downstairs flat was – mercifully – silent. John? Not probable; Sherlock had only been gone two hours and John's spirited yelling as he made a quick exit from the flat belied the assumption that John was in any way suffering from poor health. Client, then? Wonderful. He had been gone just two hours and his incompetent flatmate had managed to let a client vomit in his flat.<em>

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><p>She looks up at his sudden quiet and catches him staring. Sherlock has difficulty finding the words to describe the look which flashes like lightning across her face before she's on her feet and wheeling around to the door. Something a little bit like shame and a little bit like anger and a little bit like sadness.<p>

He leans forward on the gurney, rests his head on his hands. He should have known. After all, he's seen it all before.

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><p><em>It's when the door is closed and the flat is dark and silent that Sherlock begins to panic. There's no client. John made tea, but left it on the desk. Still slightly warm – but only one cup. He was alone. Something distracted him? The door was unlocked, so he's still home, unless he had to leave in a hurry. There are no signs of a struggle. Sherlock knows it would be sensible to call out John's name, but his worries are blocking his throat and all he can manage is a half-hearted whisper.<em>

_He repeats the most important deduction to himself as he ghosts into the kitchen area. No signs of a struggle. No signs of a struggle. No signs of a struggle. It's when he notices the cabinets and fridge doors flung wide open and the contents in disarray that he panics and John's name escapes, louder than he intended. He can't think why the kitchen is in such a state, can't think of anything other than that here, right here, are signs of a struggle. He flings himself through the kitchen door and into the bathroom._

_John is already on his feet, hair wild, face pale and smeared, surrounded by wrappers. For the second time in two minutes, Sherlock is speechless, transfixed by the look on John's face. A little bit of shame, a little bit of anger, a little bit of sadness._

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><p>He carries the image of Molly's face home with him, carefully, laying it out on the table in front of John when he finally stumbles through the door of Baker Street. He's afraid for a moment that hearing what Sherlock's seen and what he has to say will break John, but seeing John's face soften in sympathy assuages his worries. Just in case, he lays a hand on John's arm. John's warm fingers cover his. Sherlock can't help placing his other hand on top, rubbing John's knuckles, comforting with his touch.<p>

They stay up for a long time discussing the situation. Sherlock has learnt a lot of things in recent years and he is no longer the man who will stand by while those around him fall apart. Besides, Molly is good. Molly has been good to him. After the Fall, Sherlock believed he would never get to repay her for her help and consideration. He hopes tonight will go some way in making up for it.

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><p><em>John has an almost defiant look on his face as he turns his back on Sherlock and begins to clear up the litter in silence. Sherlock would be fooled, but he knows John, and he can see the tense set of John's shoulders, the tremor in his left hand, the way he favours his good leg. <em>

_He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't want to know how or why. All that really matters is that it never. happens. again. So he moves into place beside John, clearing up the litter without saying a word, and if their hands should happen to brush, and Sherlock should happen to grasp one of John's in his own briefly, then that's all fine. And if, as they work together in silence, getting rid of the evidence, John's shoulders should gradually begin to relax, and his face begin to gather colour, then that's even better._

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><p>When Molly enters the lab the next day, John is waiting by the microscopes. One look at John's face tells her everything she needs to know and she's tensed to make for the door before John approaches, takes her hand, and runs her fingers over the scars on his knuckle. She bursts into tears and crumples into his arms.<p>

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><p><em>They never really speak the word. They'll dance around the issue, tentatively, but since that night it's never really come up again, and it's never been acknowledged in the sobering light of day. So when Sherlock bursts through the door, carrying the weight of the incident in the lab, it's almost a relief for him to be able to say:<em>

'_Molly's bulimic. Just like you.'_

_John softens._

'_I'm getting better, Sherlock. I'm getting much better. I think I can help her.'_

_They plan and talk - talk honestly - deep into the night._

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><p>From outside the door, Sherlock can just make out the sounds of John's comforting, and just see the thumbs up John gives him over Molly's shaking back. He smiles, and turns on his heel. He's got his best man on it.<p>

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><p><strong>I have some experience in eating disorders so I'm hoping nobody is offended or otherwise negatively affected by this fic. If anybody wants someone to speak to about these kind of issues or if you have a complaint to make about the way I've treated the subject please don't be hesitant to message me. Thank you :)<strong>


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